


Frostbite

by StardustCoeur (SolivagantSleepyhead)



Series: Permafrost [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blood, Cutting, Eating Disorders, Emetophobia, Grieving, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicide, graphic descriptions of death, i mean just mental illness in general tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-06 12:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11035791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolivagantSleepyhead/pseuds/StardustCoeur
Summary: These are the companion pieces to my main story: Permafrost. Most are would-be chapters that didn’t come to fruition, but some are ‘what-if’ scenario’s I had toyed with for the sake of the angst™ and decided to compile here!Early warning: many of these are not happy. They weren’t published under the main story for a reason, and I will be adding detailed warnings before every chapter that I encourage you to heed.That being said, I hope you’ll enjoy! :)





	1. Needle in the Hay

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this chapter was the first official draft I ever did of Permafrost?? It was supposed to be a one-shot called “Second class Stand-in”, but I got very carried away with the plot, so this kind of became obsolete as soon as it was in the editing stage lol.
> 
> Warnings: Self-harm //, blood //, implied child abandonment //, self-loathing //

There was a cacophonous rushing in Yuri’s ears, drowning out the crowd’s applause like it had never been in the first place. His vision was fading in and out, thin body swaying as if from vertigo as he numbly pulled his street clothes back into place, glittering costume stuffed carelessly into his practice bag. He didn’t have to stick around to know that it was  _ over _ , and that was enough to have him stumbling out of the building and down the snow-dusted stone steps outside the Ice Castle. 

It was like having his head forced underwater. Every move he made was on autopilot, barely even breathing until he was watching Hasetsu fade into the distance.

Staring blankly out of the cab window, he felt everything so intensely, the pain, disappointment, the all-too familiar sting of rejection. Wondering why⏤ _why hadn’t he done better? Why hadn’t he tried harder? Why, why, why…_  

_...why had he even come in the first place? _

But, most of all, why in the ever-loving _fuck_ he hadn’t been able to see past his own ego to realize that there really wasn’t any other way this could have gone...? 

It was damned to fail from the start. Years of being tossed to the side should have taught him  _ that _ much, at least.

That thought haunted him for the duration of the sleepless plane ride. It  _ hurt _ , deep into his bones in the way that few things did⏤the glaring mark of a problem that has no solution. It’s always been like this. It always  _ would  _ be like this. The sheer resignation of that thought made him want to scream and cry⏤to throw a fit like the child everyone always thought he was. 

But, instead, he just swallowed around the heaviness in his throat and turned his music up a little louder, hoping to drown out the static long enough to make it back home. As long as he made it somewhere quiet, safe from reporters or prying eyes, then he could come to terms with the outcome he  _ should _ have been expecting from the start. 

Because Victor had  _ never _ wanted him. Not for a single. Fucking. Second.

And the worst part was that Yuri couldn’t blame him for  _ that _ , either. 

It was obvious from the way he’d looked at Yuuri. In the years they had known one another, not once had Victor ever so much as _glanced_ at him like that. So proud, so caring. He wanted to slap himself for getting his hopes up in the first place. He’d just been so ecstatic, thinking that he was _finally_ good enough. Like a fool, he’d blindly believed Victor when he made that promise. Everything in him had wanted so desperately to believe that something was _finally_ going right for him. That it wasn’t just an agreement made to pacify his childish mind long enough for Victor to find someone he actually _wanted_ to teach. 

Clenching his jaw, Yuri hastened his steps as he left the airport, footsteps crunching softly against the snowy cobblestones as he followed the familiar path back to Yakov’s house. It was still early in the evening, and he thanked god that the older man would most likely still be at the rink, at least for a few hours. He couldn’t handle a lecture right now. He needed time ⏤just a few hours to mold the pieces of himself back into a shape  that somewhat resembled the way they all expected him to be. Whatever happened...he’d figure it out then. 

The freezing winter air laid heavy in his lungs, threatening to crush him where he stood. Honestly, it was a welcome pain. At this point, _ anything _ that distracted him from that incessant clenching in his chest was. He hadn’t realized how much it had meant to him until he watched Yuuri perform, and was forced to feel himself lose that which he had fought tooth and nail to protect. 

He just. 

He really, _really_ thought it would be different this time.  

But that was his mistake, too. 

The door slams heavily behind him as his legs finally give way to the fatigue he feels deep into his core. With a rush of breath, Yuri allows himself to collapse bonelessly against the freezing wood floor, the tears he had been trying so desperately to keep at bay spilling over his pale cheeks. He knew nothing in life was fair, but it still fucking  _ hurt _ . He wanted more than anything to be able to blame Victor for having built his hopes up just to smash them back into the dirt but he just...he  _ couldn’t _ . He’d lost, point-blank. He wasn’t  _ good _ enough. He was just an inconvenience. 

Just the _other_ ‘Yuri’. 

Something glints on the table, metallic and glowing in the crepuscular light. It brings a remembered sensation with it, and Yuri’s flesh itches at the sight. He shouldn’t. He _can’t_. Even if he had lost control and cut himself a few times in Hasetsu, it wasn’t very many⏤just enough to make himself feel better, while still being easy to hide. It was different here. Yakov would _know_ , and there would be hell to pay if he had to add that to the list of ridiculous mistakes he’d made over this last month.  

_ But, is it  _ really _ different here? _ He wonders, absently running his fingers across the fabric of his leggings where he could still feel the remnants of his relapse a few days prior.  _ What makes Yakov any different than Victor? He’s neither your family  _ or _ your friend. Just another adult tasked with babysitting you. Stop being so self-obsessed and think about it: no one would go that far out of their way for a slight shift in your behavior. _

**_I can’t_ ** . He sobers himself, clenching his eyes shut so he’s forced to look away from the blade.  **_If I want to get better and beat Katsudon, I have to be in top condition. I can’t skate well if I’m in pain._ **

_ But who says you’ll  _ ever _ be able beat him?  _

He freezes at that. 

_You didn’t lose to him because you were in pain, you lost because you weren’t_ good _enough. You can pretend all you want, but it doesn’t make a difference. Face it, this is the only thing you can do, and you fucking know it._  

With a dry mouth and numb fingers, Yuri rises shakily to his feet like a man possessed, eyes locked on the object. It’s a box cutter for the mail. **_Probably unsanitary_** , he warns himself, but makes no move to retract the hand that reaches for it. **_The cuts from last time haven’t healed_** _,_ he thinks, but still grips the blade tightly, a chant of _not good enough, not good enough, not good enough_ overwhelming the reluctance lingering in his mind before he can rethink his actions.  

He stumbles blindly into the washroom, leggings already pushed half down his thighs as he drops himself into the bathtub. 

_ Just...just a few. To clear my head. I need to be quick.  _ He thinks, and knows how futile it is the second cold metal meets the soft skin of his right inner thigh. The blade is dull and it takes twice the usual pressure and twice the usual  _ pain  _ to even do anything more than a minor scratch. Meanwhile, the feeling of inadequacy only grows more desperate at the sight of the jagged, inconsistent cuts. 

_ Great _ , he thinks,  _ not only am I a fucking failure, but I can’t even self-destruct properly _ . 

Swallowing back bile, he tightens his grip and tries harder. 

He forces his hand to still after he’s made ten. They’re thin and uneven, stinging as all fuck⏤a thin pool of blood stretching out beneath his spread legs where they meet the porcelain. He doesn’t let himself linger. He  _ can’t _ , lest that awful feeling catch up with him. So, with a shaky breath, Yuri pulls himself out of the tub, not even bothering to disinfect the cuts as he drags his leggings back around his hips. 

The blood is already starting to congeal, and Yuri feels the drying liquid on his thighs pull with every movement⏤a constant reminder. Biting his lip against the sting of it, he sets to work wiping up the mess with a wad of toilet paper, kneeling over the cold edge as he feels the once comforting numbness already ebbing away into acute regret. 

When he’s wiped away the last rusty smudge, he freezes, gaze catching his reflection at the bottom of the tub. His green eyes, now rimmed-red from the tears he’d barely managed to hold back, are dull and lifeless, hair hanging around his wan face like a dusty, frayed curtain. Even with chapped lips turned into a heatless scowl, he almost doesn’t recognize himself, and it isn’t until he hears the soft pitter-patter of water dropping that he processes the tears running down the bridge of his nose. With a growl, he scrubs his sleeve angrily across his eyes, but it’s futile⏤once he’s started, there’s no stopping the deluge.

Leaning against the cold, grounding solidity of the tub, the teen gathers his legs up into the fetal position, arms hugging his aching legs like a lifeline. Yuri sobs loudly like a child until his head is pounding, and even after. It would be easy if there was something tangible, something to  _ fix _ , but there’s not. If he’d only been better⏤(but he  _ wasn’t _ ). If he’d only tried harder⏤(but he  _ couldn’t _ ). If only he’d never gone⏤(but he  _ did _ ).

The reality was, this was all he’d ever be. 

And he was just so fucking _tired_.   

When Yuri finally finds the strength to push himself onto his still-trembling legs, it’s accompanied by the pull of new scabs being torn from his thighs, fresh rivulets of blood seeping into the fabric of his already destroyed leggings. He decides not to think of the potential consequences of his impetuous actions, too tired to do anything but sleep as he collapses into his bed, thin blanket enveloping his body from head to toe. Yakov will be home soon to lecture him, and, however many  _ thousand _ kilometers away, Victor and Yuuri are probably falling asleep, wrapped up in each others’ embraces. By now, they’ve probably forgotten all about him, the taste of love and victory still fresh on their tongues... 

And they deserve it. They really,  _ really _ do. 

_ It’s for the best _ . Yuri promises himself, forcing his sore eyes shut as tightly as he can. Hugs his legs a little closer.  _ No one needs a lesser version of what they already have.  _


	2. this is not like home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this one up as fast as i could because it’s my 20th fucking birthday and i really!! Wanna die!!!!!!!
> 
> I literally cried while writing this but continued because i’m? Awful and the worst? I had toyed with the idea of Yuri dying in the main story but I really...couldn’t do it to him. Anyways, this takes place as an alternative to the events of Permafrost, and is absolutely not the tone I wanted, but I hope you like it?  
> Warnings: Suicide//, Major Character Death//, Funerals//, Vomit//, Emetophobia//, Mourning//

If Victor had been taught one thing from going professional, it was that a big portion of surviving life in the public eye was learning to lie to yourself, until even you couldn’t tell where the truth began. People would  _ try  _ to crack your composure, so you had to learn early to fake a smile and charm your way through the confrontation. If you’ve an image to maintain, it’s easier to bite back the anger now than be forced to live with the consequences of it later.

He had been adeptly reigning in his temper since he was barely a teenager, himself. He was  _ used _ to it. So why, why  _ now  _ of all times had his impeccable control decided to fail him? Now, when there was far more at stake than just a poor interview or a slight drop in popularity?

Yuri Plisetsky is missing. And Victor has no one to blame but  _ himself _ .

They’ve been searching the streets for hours, but what progress could they possibly expect to manage with nowhere to start and nothing to go on? St.Petersburg was no rural town. Even with their search party of seven spread across the city, it would take nothing short of a miracle to find a fifteen year-old who seemed dead set on not being found. Worse, narrowing down their options to places the teen frequented was futile at best, because Yuri hadn’t really known the area well to begin with. The only potential clue they could manage was the fact that he had only been wearing a thin sweatshirt and jeans when he’d left, increasing the likelihood that the rapidly falling temperature would have driven the boy somewhere warm and safe.

...Well, it  _ should have _ , anyways. But after thoroughly searching practically every cafe, restaurant, and store in a 20 kilometer radius of the apartment, that, too, seemed doubtful. Which, in and of itself, was a horrifying realization for Victor⏤finding out that the little Yuri he’d known since the boy was barely kindergarten age was out there, somewhere; alone, hurt, and  _ freezing _ .

And it was all, entirely,  _ his _ fault.

His responsibility for the situation was an unyielding burden, because as much as Yuuri tried to convince him that it was just a mistake, it was a mistake that could have easily been circumvented. Everywhere he looked, all he saw was that haunted look in Yuri’s eyes in the split second before he ran. A look that  _ his words _ had caused. There was no excuse for his actions; he knew fully well how much the blond had been suffering all this time, and he’d made it  _ worse _ . Whatever happened from this point onward was on his shoulders. What if Yuri had gotten hurt somewhere? What if he’d been  _ kidnapped _ ? He was still just a teenager⏤and a famous one, at that. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that someone might try to harm him while he was alone and vulnerable.

There were so many unspeakable scenarios running through his mind, that Victor initially didn’t even notice when Yuuri stopped walking. Not until a tentative call of his name finally reached him, stopping him in his tracks.

Turning, he noticed the brunet a few meters behind him, eyes blown wide and fixed on the opposite sidewalk.

“Victor, there’s something going on over there…”

Those words were like a curse-breaking spell, all his senses pulling him back to reality in a violent rush of stimulation. Amidst the now glaring screech of sirens, Yuuri’s quiet voice was nearly reduced to a whisper, lost in the biting wind.

Had the words not been so heavy, had they not caused that inexpressible terror to bloom in his stomach, Victor wondered if he’d ever have heard them at all.

Something urgent in his chest tugged him towards the bridge, as if he were caught in a dream. Call it some fucked up sense of intuition or simple paranoia, but he found his feet moving faster, nudging clumsily against the cobblestones as he approached the police lining the opposite sidewalk. 

“ _ Sir, I’m going to need you to take a step back _ .” A stocky, gruff officer cautions, raising hand about an inch away from Victor’s chest⏤a clear warning.

Victor, unperturbed, pushes on. “What’s happening?” He asks, unthinkingly switching back to English. He’s barely listening, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what was happening at the base of the steep hill.

The officer cocks an uncomprehending brow, eyes narrowed. The hand at Victor’s chest pushes insistently, but the silver-haired man hardly seems to notice. Noticing this, the officer tries again, louder: “ _ Hey _ ⏤ _ back up! That’s privileged information _ ⏤”

“ _ I’m sorry about him _ ,” Yuuri bows slightly, speaking in his own faltering,  _ extremely _ limited Russian as he rushes forward to try and alleviate the tension. “ _ He’s...concerned _ .”

The officer regards him dubiously, mouth pulling into a thin, apathetic line. “ _ I don’t care. No one is allowed past this point. _ ” He reiterates, mounting frustration made clear by his harsh tone. Yuuri moves to argue, but Victor doesn’t hear a word of it, eyes locked on the chaos unfolding at the edge of the river. Paramedics rushing up and down the hill, shouting orders and carrying equipment. It’s like something out of a movie⏤but that isn’t what makes the all the blood in his veins turn to ice. What truly causes him to give in to blind panic is what he sees at the center of their attention.

A boy’s body. Pale as the sheet covering the stretcher they’ve pulled under him, with a tinge of blue and black to his tiny fingertips like bruises. His eyes are closed, and Victor hopes against pointless hope that the boy is just sleeping. That he’ll open his eyes and those parted, purple lips will pull in to a scowl, spitting curses at the busy-bodied doctors who have interrupted his nap.

That, maybe, he’ll rise to his feet, and Victor will pull him into an embrace. That things won’t be fine, but they’ll be  _ okay _ ,  _ please, god, please, let them be okay _ .

But the boy doesn’t.

And things are  _ not _ .

He hears a panicked shout of his name from somewhere behind, followed by several gruff, angrier voices, but he moves forward, rushing towards the body. He has to know, has to be  _ sure _ , because there’s  _ no way _ . No.  _ No _ .  _ No way _ ⏤

Ignoring the indignant shouts, Victor shoulders his way through the few paramedics surrounding the stretcher, eyes locked on the still body atop it. A body that  _ cannot _ be Yuri, regardless of the resemblance.

At least, that’s what he tells himself up until the moment he truly takes in the boy’s face.

The way his pale lashes brush the still-youthful swell of his cheeks, face relaxed and⏤for once⏤completely unguarded. It’s a rare, peaceful expression, but one he’s caught fleeting glimpses of. It reminds him of the brush of shoulders in crowded seats during long plane rides. Or quiet moments after practice, when the boy falls silently away into sleep against the armrest of the couch⏤an ephemeral reminder that the boy is still so very young, despite the airs he puts on in the waking world.

A face so unmistakably  _ Yuri _ that his heart clenches with horror at the sight of it.

“Yuri, Yuratchka, little kitten, you have to open your eyes.” He babbles hysterically, more or less against his own volition, brushing his fingers through the teen’s silken hair as his vision begins to swim. “I’m so, so,  _ so _ sorry for what I said to you. I know that you’re upset but you can’t⏤can’t  _ leave  _ like _ this _ , so, please, open your eyes! We’ll...we’ll take you back to the apartment, make pirozhki and katsudon, watch your favorite movies! I’ll do anything, I’ll  _ never _ say  _ anything _ bad to you again, just please open your eyes,  _ please _ !” He begs, legs buckling, ready to collapse with every passing second where Yuri’s remains deathly still, laid out and silent as a mannequin.

A gentle hand finds his shoulder, but he does not turn, doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the child before him, even as a hesitant voice speaks up to his left.

“Sir, he...he’s  _ gone _ . I’m sorry.”

Victor’s lungs contract, but he finds no air.  _ Yuri _ , his family, the closest thing to a son he had, is not moving and too cold and practically  _ violet _ . He grabs for one of the boy’s hands in a last-bid effort at comfort, only to drop it in shock of what he already  _ knows _ .

Cold and curled and  _ alone  _ on the concrete under a freezing sky, Yuri passed away quietly into the night. So much like the lost little boy he appeared to be now, looking diminutive against the adult-sized stretcher while carrying the weight of never being an adult.

Never having the  _ chance  _ to be an adult, even after being forced to grow up so quickly.

Victor’s legs finally collapse under his weight, and he crumples to his knees, static overtaking him. He doesn't react when, within moments, two large hands wrap around his upper arms and hoist him up, dragging him towards the street. He sees and feels  _ nothing _ , even as the rough hands are replaced with warm arms around his midsection, a face pressed tightly against his chest.

The lights of the ambulance turn on with a wail that cuts through the stark silence overtaking him, then retreat into the distance like the blinking of a plane against the night sky.  

Victor chokes on nothing and vomits into the street.

They get home, somehow. Two people instead of three, and there is no corner of the apartment that does not echo the absence like a mockingbird's call. Too small shoes at the entrance, one turned on its side and never righted. A red toothbrush, leaned against the sink as if it had only been put down temporarily.

A room, where no one ever goes.

In the overwhelming, heavy oppression of a missing presence, the days leading up to the funeral are a blur, each bleeding into the last. Victor still says and feels nothing, seated firmly on the couch like an abandoned toy, waiting for its owner to come home from school. Waiting for the child to return, to breathe life into his plastic body, so that he will once more be forced into glorious motion from stasis.

Waiting for someone who will never set foot across the threshold again.

He’s locked in a lucid nightmare from which there is no waking. A nightmare in which Yuri is the Little Match Girl, and he, he was the father who forced her into her death.  

Because anyone can blame the night, or the pills for having taken his life, but how  _ unsafe _ would a child have to feel to prefer staying in the cold over returning to their guardian?

* * *

The place that was once a home is now a black hole from which no light exits or enters, a false-night between four walls.

Yuuri is a force in near perpetual motion. On his feet, there is no time to think⏤no time to glance pointlessly at the covered mirrors and see the steady spread of weakness in his face and body. He cleans the bathroom every morning, kitchen in the afternoon, and vacuums until he’s too tired to stand. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes, out of habit, he opens his mouth as if to break the pervasive silence, but only silence leaves his mouth, and, eventually, he returns to silence, too. Neither he nor Victor has managed more than a few hours of sleep since they left the hospital, but they still lay together every night, feigning normality.  

Fatigue carries them to sleep, but nightmares of their reality always drag them back. At the edge of the terror dreams, they gasp and convulse like drowning men, faces wet from sweat and tears. Always with hands grasping uselessly in open air, reaching for a flaxen-haired spectre that glides like smoke, just beyond their desperate reach.

Yuuri avoids the guest room for days, until there is nothing left. The mere thought of disturbing it at all feels sacrilegious, like he’d be desecrating a grave. After all, Yuri’s room is a place untouched. A perfect monument, left exactly as it was the day, the moment, the  _ second  _ that the boy last set foot in the apartment. To move even a single dust mote would mean breaking that tentative equilibrium. It would mean having to accept that which they’ve resigned themselves to not think about, even as it consumes them whole with every waking day.

It feels like something he should do once he’s  _ moved on _ .

But he’s put it off again and again, and there isn’t time left for excuses; he has to pack Yuri’s things to return to Nikolai at the funeral.

And moving on...well.

That’s seeming more and more like wishful thinking.

It takes an hour to talk himself into opening the door, and the half-hour following his decision is spent kneeling in the bathroom, trying not to be sick with apprehension. The overwhelming sadness of the last few days nearly takes a backseat to how gut-wrenchingly _horrible_ it is to look at the scattered clothes and unmade bed, to see these minuscule marks of life Yuri left behind and know, above all else, what _could_ have been. When the teen had rolled from the guest mattress for the final time, it was with the intention of _coming back_.   

As pointless as he knows it is, it’s been impossible to not think of the what-ifs⏤especially now. Had he not gone out shopping that day, had he tried harder to convince Victor not to search Yuri’s room, had the  _ unthinkable never happened _ , Yuri might still be there, curled up under the duvet. Living, breathing.  _ Here _ .

Instead of in a morgue somewhere, lying naked on a sheet of metal.

_ Don’t think about it _ .  _ Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. You’ll never get around to doing this if you don’t do it now. _

Yuuri disconnects himself the way he does when he focuses on his skating routines. He’s helped out in the onsen since he was old enough to carry a futon, so it’s easy enough to let himself be lost in the familiarity of the motions. Casually numb to the tips of his fingers, he strips the bed from the top down, the way his mother taught him.

It doesn’t matter if he’s there, and it doesn’t matter if he’s ready for this, because it’s all he can  _ do _ .

The sheets and duvet are folded mechanically, Yuuri’s eyes unfocused as he struggles through the motions, trying not to worsen things by focusing on the minutiae. A strand of Yuri’s hair on the pillow. A pair of socks under the sheets that had been lost during sleep and never recovered. Small, boringly innocuous things that have now become so precious because of their fragility.

Because they will never happen again. Not  _ ever. _

As he’s rolling over that thought in his head, hand underneath one of the pillows while searching for the edge of the fitted mattress cover, his fingers brush something fleece and soft, and, still on autopilot, he pulls it out. When his mind catches up enough to look, he finds a very worn, well-loved kitten stuffie, false fur patchy and threadbare. Its one remaining viridian eye glints in the small sliver of light peeking through the curtains, and the faded stripes along its back are almost indistinguishable from the washed-in stains covering the toy like speckles.

And it’s the most beautiful, _heartbreaking_ thing he’s ever seen.   

The world that had stopped days before begins creaking in that moment. Yuuri holds the forgotten toy tightly against his chest, and, when his burning eyes fall closed, he smells  _ Yuri _ in the cradle of his arms.

It hurt so much when Vicchan passed away that he thought his chest would collapse, but losing Yuri feels like the earth might crumble to dust at his feet, crushed under the sheer weight of realizing the true, indescribable significance of the word “loss”.

If Victor was present enough to notice it, he chooses to say nothing about the stuffed animal crushed in Yuuri’s embrace as they lay in bed that night. The spell has broken, and the world has fallen still again. In the cold of a night similar to that which saw Yuri stolen away, neither of them sleep.

At the funeral the next morning, Yuuri pulls the toy from inside his pocket and tenderly presses it in the crook of Yuri’s posed arm. He isn’t very religious himself⏤he never had been, really. But he remembers hearing that heaven was full of every beloved thing, so that there was nothing to miss.

He doesn’t believe in God, but hopes more than anything that they’re right, and whispers a silent prayer that Yuri would get his kitten back, too.

* * *

The funeral is open casket, so Nikolai can see his grandson’s face for the last time before he will be lowered into the frozen winter dirt, a mere memory. An old proverb once said that when parents die, they are buried in the ground, and when children die, they are buried in their parents’ hearts. But, looking at Yuri’s slight body, it is clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that the sentiment is not limited to parents, alone.

Quiet and still, laid out like a doll, Yuri is Peter Pan resting on a bed of mauve satin. No longer a child, yet a child just the same⏤robbed of the chance to become an adult. He looks like a little boy wearing his brother’s hand-me-downs in the too-big suit, and too-big, adult-sized grave. Both were bought in advance, with the assumption that they’d someday be grown into. That they would still have  _ time _ .

But, they didn’t. And they don’t.

They surround his pale, lifeless body with anemone to ward against evil. Lilia picked them, because fairies were said to sleep under their petals at night.

Victor feels the pieces of his shattered heart slicing against each other.

Nikolai cries for the whole two hours, and probably before in the hearse and long after the lights have gone out in the church.  _ My boy, my Yuratchka _ , he rambles to no one, trembling fingers trailing against his grandson’s cold, made-up cheek. The mortician had applied a pink blush across the apples of his youth-rounded face, as if he’d just settled in for a short nap. Like Briar Rose in her bed, waiting for salvation that would never come.

When they close the lid, it is with the resignation that there is no man or God present who will ever kiss their prince awake.

Outside, under a heavy cover of clouds, they lower Yuri and his bed into the cold dirt.

Victor whispers his desperate apology into the petals of a small bouquet of forget-me-nots. The wind picks up, but whispers nothing back, no matter how he strains his ears.

The new layer of earth they pile on top of Yuri’s final resting place promises no closure, but a hopeless, all-consuming emptiness. An nameless ache that will never subside, and makes itself home in the pit of the chest. An unending reminder of things that can never be made amends for.

Victor closes his eyes, tosses the bouquet into the hole in the ground, and never forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other notes with this ending that i wanted to include but couldn’t without messing up the pacing: 
> 
> -The new Grand-Prix Final placings are J.J., Otabek, and Chris, respectively. 
> 
> -Otabek’s exhibition skate is “Missed Connections: A Tribute to Yuri Plisetsky”, and it’s a song he composed himself after realizing that they’d never get the chance to reunite.
> 
> -Yuuri doesn’t compete. There is no ‘eros’ without ‘agape’, and the unending ache of losing Yuri is too much to get past in order for he and Victor to even think about work. 
> 
> -ALSO, regarding the fairy tale references⏤that was done for a reason, even if it wasn’t explicitly explained in the story. My train of thought was that victor’s biggest coping method is to disassociate the gravity of the event by comparing it to different fairy tales. By equating the death of a boy he cared for to fictional characters, he can sort of circumvent the finality of what has happened in his own mind. It’s weird but?? Idk i liked it??


	3. Come, now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one kind of got away from me. I wanted to write the scene of yuri’s press conference at skate canada in detail, but...idk.The end is rly gushy b/c i felt bad about how sad the last chapter i wrote was. I don’t like it all that much; It was mostly a segue to go into a more detailed confirmation of yuri’s mental illnesses/add more podium family softness. Sorry for the wait; hope you? Like it i guess?

_I’ve had nightmares like this_ , Yuri realizes as he allows himself to be pulled, dazedly, down the too-bright hotel corridor⏤a lamb to the slaughter. He can hear the buzz of reporters drawing closer with every second, heartless predators standing in wait for him to bare his soul, as if they had a _right_ to his story. It wasn’t about his wellbeing⏤they weren’t even _trying_ to pretend any of this was concern⏤no, it was about how much money these blood-suckers could earn by stripping away every last ounce of security he had left. When you’re famous, nothing is sacred. You’re not a _person_ , you’re public territory, carved out and open for the vultures to take what they want of your carrion carcass.  

For so long, he’s fought to keep his professional and personal lives separate, but for what? He’d been too preoccupied with getting better to even  _ think  _ about all of this awful, painful shit coming to light. He didn’t  _ have _ a plan.

They were going to force him to talk, but where could he start? The deterioration of his mental condition wasn’t a new development, it was a state of being fifteen  _ years _ in the making. It wasn’t tethered to definable events where he could easily package his answers into  _ because of this _ , or _ , it started when _ . No, it was more insidious than that. It was thoughts, failures. It seeped into the cracks in his composure and hid itself away, an indefinable mass growing out of control, until he couldn’t tell where it ended or began.

But that wasn’t a _story_. Yuri’s nameless suffering wasn’t the cut-to-size gossip they would demand. A story needed a victim to outpour sympathy for and a perpetrator to scorn, and the polarization of his situation left him somewhere treading the line between neither and _both_. Sure, he could easily point fingers and place blame, but hadn’t _he_ consented every time the blade met his skin? Hadn’t _his_ self-imposed isolation been the breeding ground for this nightmare? Hadn’t _he_ taken the pills, pushed himself to the edge, and _tried to take his own life_?   

Early trauma may have shaped him, but he has no one but himself to blame for the extent things have reached. 

Did he start with his father, a man whose face he’s never seen? A ghost he’s only caught glimpses of through whispered, whisky-scented curses of his name from his mother’s trembling lips? 

A mother, who never wanted him to begin with? Who pretended to care  _ just  _ long enough for him to be able to feel the full weight of her absence when she finally decided she’d had all she could take of ‘motherhood’? That woman who simply walked out, never once looking back to the child she threw away, nor her aging father, who was forced to bear the weight of her irresponsibility? 

Or...should he start with himself? How there’s a deep, persisting  _ dread _ building a home inside the hollow of his chest. That ache deep in his core, that only the siren call of complete oblivion seems to take the edge off of? How he’s grown so used to pushing people he loves away that he can’t trust them, even when the consequences of not doing so could actually, literally  _ kill him _ ? How he staves off the all-encompassing hurt through cold glasses of water and lies he tells only to himself⏤the only person he’s ever truly  _ hated _ ?

...There’s just too much to  _ say _ , and nothing he feels ready to be put out there, for the faceless masses to pick apart and cast their judgements from a safe distance⏤a liberty that’s been stolen from him. 

At his left, Yuuri squeezes his hand tightly, and, after so much time spent together, it doesn’t take a glance in the brunet’s direction to sense his worry. 

“You’re shaking, Yura,” He mutters, thumb stroking reassuringly over the teen’s trembling fingers. “I can only imagine how terrifying this must be for you, but, please, don’t shoulder this alone. We’re right here with you, and we’re staying by your side. I promise.” 

Nodding thoughtlessly, Yuri doesn’t answer. He’s coming back to himself piece-by-piece, heart stuttering when he realizes they’ve  _ stopped walking _ . 

They’re outside the room now. There isn’t enough _time_.   

Grey hair enters his line of vision and Yuri clenches his eyes shut, refusing to make eye-contact as he feels Victor stoop in front of him. 

“Listen to me, Yuri. You have complete control over what happens in there. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to.” Victor assures him, gently laying his hands on the teen’s shoulders. 

Yuri wants to believe him, but he can’t  _ breathe _ , only managing to stutter out a pathetic “But what...what  _ if… _ ” before he chokes, hands pressed so tightly against his eyes that his vision clouds with phosphenes.  _ He has to do this. He  _ has _ to.  _

_But...can he?_  

“Breathe with me, Yuri.” Yuuri instructs, pulling their joined hands apart to place the blond’s palm flat against his chest. “ _ In _ ...two...three... _ Out _ ...two...three.”

Yuri imitates the older skater’s breathing, his own rasping in his chest like he’s resurfacing from underwater. The panic hasn’t cleared, but the senseless fear clouding his thoughts is beginning to ebb away, leaving sharp, overstimulating uncertainty in its place.

“If you start to panic, tap your heel against mine and I’ll take over.” Victor instructs, mouth pulling into a tense frown. “Yuuri will escort you out if it’s too much, but we’re not going to let them have the last word. We aren’t leaving room for a repeat of this.”  

Yuri nods again, fearing that his voice will betray him if he tries to speak now. Victor is still giving him that unreadable, anxious look, but theirs is a useless battle. The only way out is through, and unfairness takes a backseat to necessity when it comes to the media’s heavy-handed sense of entitlement. 

“Okay.” Victor inhales, eyes cold and patented, fake smile plastered across his face. “Let’s get this over with.”

The second the door is pulled open, Yuri is assaulted by the near-blinding camera flashes, each photographer seeming to take it as their own, personal mission to catch him with the least-flattering expression possible. Yuuri’s hand is his only anchor point in a sea of white light, pulling him onto the hastily-prepared interview stage while Victor follows close behind. 

Taking their seats, Yuuri gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, a silent reminder of _I’m here if you need me_.   

_I know_. Yuri thinks, with no small amount of thankfulness. Although his careful frown doesn’t waver, he returns the gesture in affirmation, eyes fixed on Victor as he takes center stage.   

“Settle down, please!” Victor calls, voice somehow managing to carry across the din of confused chatter echoing throughout the small room. “It has come to our attention that a number of rumors regarding Yuri Plisetsky’s health have been circulating as of late, and this is the _only_ official opportunity we will be presenting to set the record straight.” He explains carefully, eyes roving warningly across the sea of impatient faces. “As for follow-up questions⏤I shouldn’t have to remind you, but please keep in mind that Yuri is _underage_. Any unnecessarily rude or invasive inquiries will not be taken kindly to, so I would encourage you to be cautious with your wording, lest you make fools of yourselves and the labels you represent.”   

_ Holy shit _ . Yuri practically gasps, mouth falling agape as he watches all of the previously unsympathetic reporters lapse into tense, ashamed silence. He’s never heard Victor “People Pleaser” Nikiforov sound so fiercely protective before, and, judging by the vultures’ reactions, neither have  _ they _ .  

_Maybe this won’t be so bad after all..._ He muses, fighting the urge to grin as Victor, having made his point abundantly clear, slips into the seat beside him. The grey-haired man gives him a soft, blink-and-you-miss-it paternal look, to which Yuri swallows his pride and joins their hands, a nonverbal _thank you_ , before Victor’s plastic smile slips back into place.  

_ Breathe; it’s going to be okay. Just give them what they want, then you’ll never have to do this shit again.  _

Straightening his spine and narrowing his eyes confidently, just as Lilia taught him, Yuri swallows back the bitter dregs of panic and forces himself into motion. Even if everything went to hell, the least he could do was deny them the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. 

“In the interest of not having to drag this out any longer, I’ll confirm the rumors.” He pauses, head held high and gaze unwavering, even as he feels his hands shaking harder beneath the table. The crowd is silent, scarcely breathing in anticipation as Yuri fights to steel his nerves. “I was hospitalized twice this year for self-destructive behavior. First for malnourishment, and...and a month later for attempted suicide.” 

Despite having been privy to this information, Yuri’s verification of the fact seems to force the reporters into a temporary stunned silence. Still reeling from his confession, the chance to breathe should be a blessed relief. That is, if Yuri’s anxiety wasn’t quickly filling the empty air in place of the interrogation he  _ knows _ is waiting just on the horizon. 

His mental state was something he’d been keeping to himself for a myriad of reasons. First and foremost being the fact that it wasn’t _anyone’s_ goddamn business, but, deeper than that, of course, there was _real_ _fear_ that he hadn’t yet had the chance to face. The stigmatization of mental illness is responsible for some of the most polarizing differences in opinion when it comes to celebrities⏤even lower-list ones, like himself. Whether good or bad, the public opinion of him _was_ going to change once the news spread, and that was unspeakably terrifying. 

Even if the feelings weren’t  _ new _ , having a name to put to his anxiety and depression was something he, himself was still trying to acclimate to. If the information hadn’t been leaked in the first place, at least he would have had the chance to keep it to himself until he had the solid ground of personal experience to support him. At least  _ then  _ he would have gotten the chance to decide on his own terms whether or not he’d go public with his diagnosis. 

As he was now, still taking his first, fledgling steps into trying to understand the ins-and-outs of his disorders, he was in no position to offer the explanations that would be expected of him. Every day was a trial, and his failures far outweighed his successes. He couldn’t be the poster-boy for problems he hadn’t even _begun_ to deal with himself, but it was either _that_ or watch as his suffering was written off as some run-of-the-mill teen angst and attention-seeking. There were just too many _ifs_ , and the thought of losing control of his story to the speculation of outsiders was harrowing, to say the least. No matter what little authority telling the story on his own (very limited) terms afforded him, the fact of the matter was that the second they were out there, the secrets he’s fought so hard to protect weren’t strictly _his_ any longer. From now on, he’ll have to cope with all of these new things under the watchful, above-it-all eye of an unsympathetic public. Stripped bare and open with all the dignity and respect of a lost child.   

He just…

He needs more  _ time _ . 

But, as everything, the reprieve that silence offers has to end eventually. The ensuing chaos is less intense than it had been initially, but the overlapping voices are still nearly deafening, everyone vying for a chance to be heard. Yuri fights the instinctual startle response down through the grounding warmth of the hands holding his own, but the realization that his fight is far from over is painful in its hopelessness. The shitstorm is only just beginning. 

“Please, settle down!” Victor shouts, light brows furrowed in narrowly-restrained frustration. “We will be taking questions one at a time, so, please, be respectful and civil. If chosen, you will have one chance and one chance _only_ , so use it wisely.” He warns in that same, stern tone that leaves no room for argument, silencing the reporters into patient submission.  

When Yuuri and Victor both glance in his direction, Yuri belatedly realizes that he’s expected to choose who he’ll be taking questions from. Unfortunately, ‘none’ doesn’t seem to be a viable option this far into the game, so he reluctantly drops Victor’s hand and points to a random corner of the room, praying that the person he’s chosen is at least  _ half  _ decent. 

The reporter who deems himself closest to the direction Yuri had pointed, a man in his late-forties with slick, salt-and-pepper hair, steps forward almost excitedly, pen uncapped and notepad in hand as he clears his throat. “Luther Hewitt,  _ International Sports Weekly _ ; Mr.Plisetsky, would you be willing to elaborate on your mental health diagnosis?” 

_ No tact; of fucking course.  _ Yuri thinks, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Generalized anxiety and major depression with episodes of depersonalization.” He recites, rolling through the words without leaving a beat for elaboration as the reporter hurriedly scribbles down his diagnosis.

Yuri pushes through the discomfort, pointing toward a dark-haired woman near the front of the crowd. “You. Next question.” 

The woman, obviously taken aback, rushes to her feet, hastily pulling a tape-recorder from the right pocket of her blazer. “Hi, Rochelle Vinson of  _ Olympian _ . You cited malnutrition as the cause of your first hospital visit, but was that due to an eating disorder, or a side effect of your depression?”

Yuri huffs, irritation pooling in his gut. “I suffer from disordered eating habits as a result of an unspecified eating disorder, but it’s interrelated with my mental illness, obviously.” 

He’d been trying to keep any speculation regarding his e.d. To a minimum for Lilia’s sake. Naturally, once word got out, people would try to draw parallels between the formal ballet instruction and his disordered eating, but, in all honestly, Lilia had been the biggest help in that department _because_ of her experience with it. She had helped him through the worst of it without ever complaining, and the _last_ thing she deserves is to be baselessly accused of encouraging him to lose weight.  

“Next...you.” He grumbles, again gesturing at a vague corner and hoping someone will step up regardless of his careless ambiguity. 

Another man⏤this time a blonde⏤steps up, his unnaturally white teeth glinting behind a tight-lipped, rehearsed smile. “Hello, Yuri, I’m Andrew Wyatt from  _ Figure Eight _ . Now, I’ll just get right to it, since I’m sure we’re  _ all _ wondering,” He breathes through an empty laugh that has Yuuri tightening his grip on their joined hands. Whether the older skater senses what is coming next or not, the teen can almost feel the glib insincerity saturating every word, and takes the gesture as a warning to brace himself as Wyatt continues. “What negative effects will these disorders have on your future career?”

The room falls silent again, as does Yuri’s previously unyielding tumble of anxious thoughts. “I⏤what?” He asks dumbly, still holding eye-contact with the reporter. The man does not look remorseful or apologetic, although he does backtrack slightly, smile wavering for just a second before he regains his bearings. 

“Well⏤no offense, but until you’ve regulated your illness, isn’t it possible you’ll be put out of commission again, if and when something happens? You were hospitalized twice this year alone, so why are you not concerned about falling behind due to inability to practice?” The reporter presses, tone carrying the faintest hint of condescension⏤as if this is information Yuri  _ owes _ . As if his suffering is just an inconvenience to the public. Victor inhales sharply, affronted, as if poising to ask the man to leave, but Yuri takes his hand and squeezes insistently, merely shaking his head in response when Victor fixes him with a distressed look. 

It’s humiliating, having his situation⏤a situation he had  _ no  _ intention of bringing to light, at that⏤broadcasted against his will, only to be disparaged like this. But, what’s worse is that it’s a question that Yuri has been agonizing over for the better half of a year. It’s the thought that haunts him every time he sees a day, a week, a  _ month  _ go by with no improvement, because his situation is still so new, fragile and uncertain. The fear and insecurity are always there in the back of his mind, taunting him every time he has the urge to cut himself, every time he has to force himself to eat, then live with the self-loathing after doing so, to resist the urge to throw it all back up because it’s  _ too much _ . He isn’t getting better, but what hurts so much more is that it offers no promises, and no solid ground. At least when he’s getting worse, he knows where to move from there. When you’ve taken a step back, there is always a step forward. So, where can he expect to move from the road-block stasis of his own detached apathy? Of waking up exhausted and watching the days flow by in an incomprehensible blur born of the wash, rinse, repeat of an unchanging routine, until he can’t differentiate one grey, dragging week from the next? He’s not hospitalized, but he’s still falling behind.

He’s not getting better. But at least getting worse would give him something to fucking  _ say _ .

With the prolonged silence, Victor and Yuuri have both started staring at him, their increasing concern evidenced by the tight grips they have on his hands. _Even now, they’re still hoping for the best for me_ , Yuri muses, relishing in the selfish comfort he finds in the little reminder of how genuinely they _do_ care for him.   

When it all began, their worry was merely an annoyance. Yuri’s world was still confined to small space he’d built around himself, sure that the only one who could feel anything positive toward him was his grandfather. He resented Victor and Yuuri’s carelessness, and  _ loathed  _ what he perceived as their misguided, false-affection toward him. No matter what they did or how close they stayed, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that the things they did were anything more than a clumsy attempt at trying to gain his trust. He was sure that they would eventually realize how unpleasant he was to be around and give up the facade, and it took nearly  _ dying  _ for him to admit to himself that their feelings weren’t the result of lies or delusion. 

It had taken a lot for him to accept their care, but that was what cracked open his shell and allowed him what little progress he’d made. They’d been with him every step of the way⏤through every sleepless night and every relapse, and for the first time, he was able to let himself depend on others when he needed help. Of course there were still days when he took on too much or pushed himself too far, but he no longer felt chained down by his self-loathing as he once did. 

It wasn’t much progress, but it was _his_. He wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of taking that little bit of headway away from him.  

Holding on to that resolve, Yuri takes a deep breath. “I’m not ‘concerned’ about falling behind because my experiences are  _ part of me _ , even when they don’t enrich my performances. If I need time to heal, then I’m going to prioritize my health over my career; I’m a person, not a machine.” He scowls heatlessly, jittery muscles tense beneath his skin. For once, his usual knee-jerk anger response is absent, leaving a cold, hollow ring to his voice that surprises even himself. “I can’t promise that I’m going to get better, and I can’t promise it won’t happen again,” Yuri sighs, breath shallow as he forces himself to continue. “but I’m  _ trying _ . Maybe I’ll fall behind, but I’m doing my best, and you can take that or leave it, I don’t care.” 

What little strength had managed to push him through to the end dissipates with that last, petulant dismissal, and Yuri comes back enough to feel his heart hammering and a room of eyes all locked on  _ him _ . His breath is pulling in his chest, and he suddenly feels so stupid, so absolutely fucking pathetic. His little display has probably raised more criticism than the initial question, and every cell in his body feels ready to burst. 

“That’s it⏤I’m done. No more questions.” He breathes, dropping Victor and Yuuri’s hands and practically bolting from the room before the reporters can resume their interrogation. He can hear the two calling his name as he dashes down the hall, eyes blurry and fists balled tight enough to sting, but he can’t  _ stop _ . The panic attack that’s been building in his chest has resurfaced vengefully, and the rush of nervous energy propelling him forward is all he has left to get somewhere safe and away from prying eyes. 

The hall splits at the end, and Yuri skids around the corner closest to himself only to crash to an abrupt stop, knocked backwards onto the floor from the force of the collision. His mind is still racing too fast to process a coherent thought apart from his desperate, instinctual flight response, but through it, there are garbled voices speaking and large hands wrapping around his upper arms, hauling him to his unsteady feet. 

The hands steadying him do not retreat,  _ two _ large figures leaning into his line of sight, and Yuri  _ knows  _ them, but the wires in his brain have crossed and left him unable to put the names to the faces. The one that isn’t holding him reaches out a hand and Yuri recoils violently, a breathy, terrified scream ripping itself from his lips. The action seems to shock the not-strangers into pulling back, and Yuri collapses bonelessly against the wall, knees drawn up to his forehead as his body convulses with the harsh force of his sobbing. 

More vaguely familiar voices reach his ears, followed by hastened, loud footsteps leading up to where he’s crumpled in on himself on the cold tile, a trembling, weepy mess. This time, when he’s taken into someone’s arms and lifted, he goes totally pliant, too tired to fight, and simply rests his head against their chest as he’s carried off. Another set of hands joins the ones holding him, but, instead, they alternate between stroking his hair and across his back, the other’s chest rumbling under his cheek as they speak to him. Yuri still chokes on stale air, fingers shaking as he clutches at the fabric of their shirt, but his senses are slowly beginning to become less clouded by panic. It’s breaking away piece by piece, and by the time they’ve stopped moving, he can feel the heavy coil of tension lodged in his chest starting to unravel, allowing his breath to even out just a bit as he focuses on the person holding him.

“⏤at’s it....You’re fine; you’re safe...come back to us, Yura…” 

When the tremors have receded to an occasional twitch, Yuri finds the strength to crack his eyes open, vision overtaken by a familiar blur of light grey. His body feels both weightless and unbearably heavy, but he forces himself to lean up from whoever’s lap he’s been settled into, blinking his eyes back into focus. 

Victor smiles softly down at him, and Yuri fights the odd combination of attachment and humiliation that comes with the realization that they’re in a hotel room, meaning that Victor must have carried him up from the main floor. It’s an embarrassing thought, but there isn’t anything he can do about it now, so he settles on what he  _ can  _ do and gracelessly hefts himself out of Victor’s lap and onto the bed. Having them bear witness to his breakdowns was nothing new, but he’d be  _ damned _ if he was going to sit on Victor’s knee like a goddamn toddler now that he was lucid again. 

“Welcome back, Yuri. Are you okay?” Yuuri asks, settling into the bed beside them and offering him a water bottle from the hotel mini-fridge, which he gratefully accepts. 

“About as much as I can be.” He grunts, taking a deep swig from the bottle before his memories start filtering back. “Oh, god, what’s the damage? I know there were other people around who saw me losing my shit. They weren’t reporters or anything, right?” If his display during the conference earlier wasn’t bad enough, he’d never live it down if they published their accounts⏤or, worse,  _ pictures _ ⏤of him having a panic attack in the middle of the hall.

Yuuri sighs, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Thankfully, no. They were all too jarred from your quick escape to chase after you.” 

Ignoring the brunet’s teasing, Yuri frowns. “Then, who was that? I know I kind of recognized them…” 

“Emil and...J.J.” Victor winces, quickly continuing when the color drains from Yuri’s face. “But it’s fine! Emil’s got a big mouth, but I’m sure he won’t spread any rumors. And J.J. is a jerk, but he’s not cruel. I’m sure he’ll keep it to himself, too.” He reassures, hand reaching to stroke Yuri’s hair comfortingly. “They were more worried than anything. J.J. just kept demanding to know what was going on and if you’d be okay, and Emil was screaming like you’d  _ died _ .” 

Yuri flops backwards onto the bed, hands over his aching eyes. “I wish I had…” He grumbles under his breath, already dreading the barrage of taunting he’d have to deal with the next time he and J.J. met. “The conference was a fucking train wreck, too. The press is going to  _ destroy _ me.” 

“Oh, I promise that it wasn’t as bad as you think it was.” Yuuri smiles encouragingly, kneeling down to untie and remove Yuri’s sneakers with shockingly little protest from the exhausted teen. “Especially that last reporter. I was expecting you to tear him apart, but you handled it with a lot of tact and maturity.”

“That guy…” Victor scoffs, arms crossed across his chest. “I can’t believe someone would be so callous just for a story! I swear, I was  _ this  _ close to jumping the table and giving him something to write about.”  

Yuri snorts derisively, rolling his eyes. When it came to physical violence, Victor was roughly as threatening as a PTA dad in an argyle sweater. “Come on, old man, you’d never be able to follow through with⏤" 

“Me too. I wanted to kill him for trivializing Yuri’s recovery like that.” Yuuri interrupts, eyes uncharacteristically dark. “I still think we should report him to his publisher. Harassing a fifteen-year old child about their mental state is well within the grounds for dismissal.” 

With his shoes removed, Yuri pulls his feet underneath him, propping himself on his open palms to fix the couple with an incredulous look. “You’re serious?” He asks slowly. Victor wasn’t very intimidating, but at least Yuri had been around enough to see him angry. For Yuuri, on the other hand, anything that raw and intense was practically unthinkable. To hear the brunet speaking with such heated, vindictive rage (on Yuri’s behalf, nonetheless) was pretty shocking. 

“Of course we’re serious!” Victor replies, furrowing his brow. “What he said to you was completely unwarranted. He shouldn’t get away with treating  _ anyone _ like that, especially in a professional environment.” 

“I know  _ that _ .” Yuri snaps, irritation pulling at the edges of his mind. “But...” He hesitates, averting his eyes from their questioning glances. “You’d really go that far? Just for me?” 

The ensuing silence makes Yuri blush, wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth in the first place⏤especially not to say something so pathetically puerile. As much as he liked being around the couple, they always seemed to suck him into their walking vortex of sentimentality, setting free that base, uninhibited honesty that led him to say such idiotic things. 

He’s about to backtrack when he’s pulled into Yuuri’s soft embrace, a hand cradling his head into the older skater’s shoulder. “Oh, Yuri…” He sighs, breath ghosting the teen’s neck. “Of  _ course _ we would. We’d do anything for you; you’re so important to us.” 

Victor joins the hug, long arms easily wrapping around both of their shoulders. “We hated seeing you so scared and hurt earlier, but what was hardest was watching you try to handle it all by yourself.” He admits, hand moving slightly to stroke Yuri’s upper arm. “We’re always here for you. I know it’s a hard habit to break, but remember that you can rely on us as much as you need.” 

Yuri can only nod in response, fearing the things he might say against his tightening throat. He knows they aren’t lying, that they have no reason to, but it’s still so hard to accept their words at face value. Even after everything they’ve been through with him, that scared, traumatized part of his brain is always screaming that it won’t last, that ‘love’ and ‘faith’ are temporary, and he’ll only be left with more pain once the illusion falls away. Those fears are there, and they might not ever truly go away, but in stiller moments like these, the intrusive thoughts are quieter. The thoughts he once considered an unfortunate truth now waver with uncertainty⏤a feat that would have been unthinkable even half a year earlier. It might not be a grand revelation or a perfect bill of health, but that detached, fearful part of him is slowly changing, and that’s _something_.  

They spend the night together, renting movies from the hotel’s catalogue and eating sub-par room service desserts that Yakov will _definitely_ give Yuri hell for when he finds out. But, as he’s sandwiched between the two older adults on the too-small queen bed, Victor snoring in his ear, and Yuuri braiding his hair, the conference from earlier far from his mind, Yuri knows it’s well worth it. 

Maybe he isn’t better yet, and maybe he’ll never  _ really  _ get better. But, here and now, he can feel the truth of their promises in their words and in their embrace, and he believes  _ them. _

And maybe it isn’t everything, but it’s more than enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to empathize victor’s involvement in yuri’s healing. In the main story, he mostly was there as a backup support during yuri’s attacks while yuuri talked him down, but i wanted to show his improvement over time. 
> 
> Also, to note: i moved the conference from the arena to the hotel. That way, yuri would have time to change into his normal clothes, plus It was just easier than pretending victor and yuuri had to run, like, 5 city blocks carrying him through a panic attack lmao


End file.
